My Bathroom is Awesome

I know first-hand the exact, complete awesomeness of my downstairs bathroom because over the past two days, I've been spending roughly 8 hours in there at a stretch. It's the potty training, you see. We're kicking it into high gear. Toilet or nothin'. It's been somewhat successful and mostly...not.

I made a chart for Tate with stickers, rewards, blah blah blah. He doesn't quite get the concept. He thinks that he should get to go to Chuck E Cheese EVERY time he pees, not just every 12th or so time. Same with the sucker or the Thomas Toy. So, things normally go as thus:

Me: "Tate, you want to try going potty?"

Tate: "YEEEEEEEEAH!!!!" He then spends 10 minutes trying desperately to pee, complete with a little hip-thrusting and behind-slapping (I think he's trying to propel the pee forward). It doesn't work. "Come ON, pee!! Why is not this working????"

Me: "It's ok, honey. Let's just try again later."

Tate: "NO!!!!" More dancing around in front of the potty. I think he tries to call upon the mighty Potty Training God by doing a special, aggravated dance. "Why is there NO POTTY IN THERE??? COME ON!!!!!!"

Repeat. 60000 times. Too bad I can't fit a recliner in the bathroom. I'd bring in the laptop and a glass of wine (or box. Let's be realistic here) and be perfectly happy. Instead I sit on the cold, hard floor and stare at the base of the toilet. Which, really, isn't that exciting. Which, really, is a good thing, I suppose. You don't want to be staring at your toilet wondering what the hell that thing is growing on it and how exactly you can get rid of it without contaminating your whole being.

Anyway, after a few despairing queries of "why is not this WORKING?" (no, that's not a typo. That's how he says it), and desperate chugs of water from his sippy, he usually is successful. Then he gets a sticker on his chart and freaks out because we're not to the point where he gets a toy or to go to Chuck E Cheese. So, really, he gets excited for nothing, in his eyes. Then he pees in his Pull-Up. So, this is why we are somewhat successful and mostly...not.

But whatever. I really really love saying "Honey, do you have to go potty?" every 4 minutes so honestly, no rush. Truly. For real.

In other news, Eric bought me an AWESOME, KICKASS, RAD camera. I lurve it. See, look at my pretty pictures.

And, I'm sorry, but in those last two pictures, my kidlets look waaaaaay too old for my liking. Like, they're adults in tiny, diaper wearing, tantrum throwing, mostly undecipherable bodies. They're looking so....big. I swear tomorrow they'll be needing help with some kind of science project totally beyond my intelligence level, and next week they'll be asking for the car, and next month they'll be sitting around moaning about their artificial hips and the young hooligans running around next door. Tate's striking some kind of GQ pose or something in that last picture. And Nora is once again looking like John Candy in one of his finest roles.

Barf. Remember? Barf the Dog. From "Spaceballs". Try to keep up here, people.

She actually was looking a little like Hitler for awhile there, which is really not something most people envision or hope for their children. I wasn't too eager to show her face in public. I tried to cover her up with blankets and tarps and whatnot, but for some reason she wasn't really going for that. Kid likes to see and breathe and all that crap. But she had somehow scraped her upper lip in her crib one morning and the resulting scab just looked a little too much like Hitler's 'stache for my liking. Kind of weird to see this kid looking like one of the most evil men in the history of the world running around babbling and pushing her little ball-popper thingy with unabashed glee. Hitler loves all that Fischer-Price has to offer, apparently.